Truth
by Rooklyn
Summary: (EC and AU) The truth has been greatly distorted. Christine sets out to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.(The REAL story of The Phantom of the Opera)
1. Prologue

**Summary:The truth has been distorted. Christine sets out to tell the truth,the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.(The REAL story of The Phantom of the Opera) Just a warning to the resident R/C fans. This is not Raoul sympathetic!**

**A/N: This ia my first fanfic ever. While I welcome a good flame now and then (keeps my ego in check : ), please remember that I am trying to hone my writing into something better. If there are serious discrepancies please TELL me about them! And PLEASE let me know what I could do better.**

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Truth. 

So much, too much, meaning wrapped up in one little word.

What is truth?

A question asked by humanity for centuries.

In 1871 the Parisian Newspaper _Le Dauphiné Libéré_ released a front-page article portraying what the lead editor thought of as truth. Within the month, all papers in Paris were featuring front page articles with headlines screaming about the Affair of the Phantom. All of the stories were accepted by the general public as truth and later the world would be caught in the subtle trap of media induced lies.

Needless to say, the story became famous. It became part of the vast legacy of France. In a way it became a legend unto itself. Millions of people flocked to Paris just to get a glimpse of the famed Opera Populaire. The wealthier circles paid no small amount of money to be allowed to step past the boarded doors and try to sneak an exciting run-in with the "Ghost" or at the very least, catch a glimpse of that famous white mask. They would search every lightened corner; every obvious hiding place for their money worth's of excitement while police escorts followed tamely along, silently counting the bonus they would receive for their efforts. These escorts would, of course, have the appropriate fire power that would make even a ghost think twice about making an appearance.

They never found anything. The young nobles returned to their homes with nothing more than a daunting memory of a dilapidated Opera House in ruin and empty pockets. These "haunted" tours continued for only a few months after the incident. The young nobles found other, more amusing pursuits and the Opera House was finally left in relative peace. Worldly tourists still trickled in to gaze at the sad façade adorning the building and they still wondered about the Phantom and his love but eventually even those visits stopped.

For two and a half years I have visited the Opera Populaire. Faithfully (some say obsessively) I gaze into those shattered windows and remember. I remember happier times, better times filled with light and love. The memories assault my deadened soul with their light and splendor and everyday I curse myself for the torture I put myself through. Day after day I vow never to return. And yet somehow my traitorous feet lead me back through the winding streets of Paris to the scorched statues that look over the boulevards in quiet guilt.

For two years I have looked at that wretched building with tears in my eyes. My husband says I am slave to the past and as much as I despise him and his proud opinions, I have to agree. All I want is freedom. Freedom from my past. Freedom from the love that still grips my heart in its clawed embrace. Most of all, I want freedom from the eyes that haunt me and accuse me. Those eyes that will never leave me. It's those eyes that hover before me now as I write this memoir of events. The true events that never made their way to the newspapers. It is through these pages that my soul will hopefully be free of the chains that are wound around my heart even after the years that have passed.

The newspapers detail the chandelier's fall and the resulting mystery of the Phantom of the Opera as "A mystery never fully explained". Well I am here to explain it in the fullest sense of the word. The events you know as truth are sadly distorted and I am here to make it right.

My name is Christine de Chagny, formerly known as Daae.

This is the truth.

**Please Read and ****Review! Thanks!**


	2. Of Graveyards and Broken Promises

**A note on the story: This is an AU of sorts. I will be keeping the events that happend in front of an audience (i.e. the chandelier crash, certain :ahem: deaths) accurate and in order, but as for behind the scenes...well, that's up to my imagination. Also this is based on the movie. So the Phantom will be decidedly Gerry centric. :shudders in pure delight:**

**Disclamer: Don't own em'. Someone once wrote that they are convinced Erik owns himself. I couldn't agree more.**

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"_My first thought was, he lied in every word,"_

Robert Browning, "Childe Roland to the Dark Tower Came"

_I am here to chronicle the truth of matters. Counteract, if you will, the dishonesty that wraps around my name and the name of my Phantom. Therefore it is exceedingly ironic that my entire story starts out with a single, softly spoken lie._

**Winter, 1858**

It was a cold, grey morning that left no room for joy. The very air seemed to press down on me and even the old cloak wrapped around my shoulders could not keep the cold at bay. A lone crow, nesting in a gnarled old tree, cried its hoarse cry. The lonely cry reverberated throughout the graveyard, adding even more dreariness to my dismal thoughts.

I sat at the foot of my father's grave watching the trees sway back and forth like clumsy dancers. Behind them, the clouds rolled across the sky, blocking the sun. Every once in awhile sunbeams would pierce violently through and fight their way to the ground. They moved across the ground like flickering wraiths, a final insult to the deep depression that had sunk in.

The world blurred.

Wrapped in my sorry excuse for a cloak, I bowed my head and shook with silent sobs. The small insignificant sounds of my weeping echoed softly around the graveyard.

The priest's soft droning at my back drilled its way into my ears. Usually, I found the rhythmic Latin cadence soothing but not today. Never again would I listen to those notes and not think about the day I left my beloved father behind for good.

To drown out the annoying tones, I found myself drifting back through time. Back two days to be exact. The day my father died.

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I was led in by the kind nurse. The one who smiled at me and told me not to worry. Her habit hid most of her features but I will always remember her eyes. Those eyes that betrayed her kind, comforting words for the hollow lies they were. Her eyes held a sort of pity that will alert even a naïve child.

My father lay in the bed he had been confined to for the past month or so. I wasn't sure exactly how long. Time stands still for a seven year old when her strong, infallible father is sick.

My curly hair had been neatly bound back and I was wearing a clean new dress that was unbearably stiff and a wretched pain for any girl to wear. Such a difference from the old, worn clothing I was used to. My face still stung where the other, meaner old nurse had rubbed and my ears were smarting from the good cleaning they had received earlier in the day. I was, in short, wholly presentable to a dying man.

The kind nurse led me through the doorway, her large callused hand enveloping mine. She pulled out the usual stool and sat me on it. With the admonishment, "Be a good girl and don't upset your father, dear…" and an encouraging pat on the back, she was gone.

I turned my head to look at my father's pale face. His eyes were closed and his mouth was slightly slack. He looked different to me. I squinted against the candlelight to get a better look at him. His usual thick hair had thinned considerably. The comforting lines on his face had deepened, but the skin looked strangely _stretched_ and old. I was shocked to find that he looked more like a Grandfather thana father.

I knew…had known for a while…he was sick. I may have been seven but I'm not stupid. A vibrant man, my father was not one to lie idly in bed or stare morosely out the window.

For him, there was always something new to do, a violin string to be replaced, or a song to play. Never would one catch him being lazy as "penniless musicians" were rumored to be at the time.

"Christine."

My thoughts were interrupted by his softly spoken voice. My blue eyes flicked to his brown and I smiled the big smile that I reserved especially for my _papa_.

"Christine." He closed his eyes as if cherishing the sound of my name upon his lips.

"Christine." His eyes had opened and they had a bit of a spark that was not there before. He grinned weakly. " My! You do look pretty today. Is that a hint of soap I smell?" He knew how much I hated baths.

I wrinkled my nose and said, "Yes. Madam Cezanne made me! She said my stinky toes would foul the abbey if left alone. She scrubbed me…hard." The last I said with emphasis only a child can make.

He smiled at me and looked down at my curly hair in the usual fatherly fascination.

"Well… it is nice to see what a pretty daughter I have. But," he said airily, "if you really want to stink up the abbey and be known as my little Angle of Dirt, I have no qualms about holding my nose." He leaned forward as if sharing some great secret. "Although I do not think Madame would appreciate her own personal Angel of Filth. She is far to clean…."

I laughed as he grinned at me. I slyly whispered that I agreed and shared with him my plans of dumping mop water on her good habit.

He listened patently to my rambling, nodding in all the right places, and gently holding my hand in his long fingers. My intricate plans drifted to a whisper and eventually ceased as I noticed his eyes sliding shut. I stared at him a moment longer before I started shaking his hand.

"Papa? Papa…wake up. You haven't heard the best part! Papa!" Icy panic started to freeze my heart.

The panic subsided as his eyes drifted open and slowly focused on me again.

"Papa? When are you going to play for me?", I asked suddenly. "You haven't picked up your violin in months! I can't sleep well anymore." I pouted prettily, eager to do anything that would help me forget the dreadful stillness that I had just witnessed.

He smiled at me again, this time sadness pooled in his eyes. "I will play for you when I get better, Christine."

"When will that be?"

"When I am feeling better, we can go on a picnic. I will take my violin and you will take your voice. Then we will make such beautiful music all the animals will come to see us! Does sound good to you Christine?"

Of course it sounded good. It was anything a seven year old, who had been cooped up in an abbey, could wish for. Despite this I was not to be distracted by such idle promises.

"Yes…but _when_?" He didn't answer. This chilled me for some reason and I couldn't put a name on the cause.

"Papa?", I asked tentatively. I knew that eavesdropping was frowned upon in the small country abbey. "I heard some of the maids yesterday. They were talking about finding a priest. The last time a priest came, Mama died. Are you going to die, papa?"

I waited with bated breath.

He looked at me and again I was struck by the change in him. Always an honest man he answered simply, "I really don't know. But if I do die, child, know that I will always be with you. Remember that no matter what, I will be watching you, looking out for you."

I sucked in more breath and floundered. "But…what about your music? Who will play me the violin? How will I ever sleep!" I grasped at any straw, any excuse to make him take it back.

Kissing my forehead gently he whispered in my hair, "I will send you an angel…an angel of music. He will guide you and help me guard you. Do not cry Christine! I am not gone yet! Come, I know how to make you smile. Sing a song for me."

I shook my head, unwilling to give up my tears. The thought of singing after such horrible pronouncements made me slightly ill. But he was persistent.

"Come now. When I hear your sweet voice my heart soars. Please Christine…sing for me. I think if you sing I shall feel a good deal better! Wouldn't you like to help your papa get better?"

I nodded and reluctantly I began to sing. My voice was shaky and my tears had roughened it but he closed his eyes and nodded all the same. He brought my palm to his lips and whispered a hushed thank you.

I sang until the nurse, Madame Cezanne this time, came to fetch me. My fears had been abated and I had all but forgotten the hushed conversation we had had

After a quick kiss on his cheek I walked out the door and into the hallway. On my way to my room I planned our picnic and made a firm resolve with myself to never think about my Papa dying again.

He died that night and when I found out the next morning, a part of me died too.

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**Please Review! Thanks.**


	3. Wandering Child

**A/N: Sorry it has been such a long time. I have been really busy lately and a small bit of writers block has crept in over the last few weeks. I'll try not to make you guys wait so long in the future. : )**

**Please try to plow through this chapter. Erik will be in the next chappie...I promise (scout's honor!...Wait...I'm not a scout. Oh well.)**

**Special thanks to Gondolier (My own personal Angel of Writing) and CStarling for being such wonderaful beta readers! **

**This is dedicated to my very special most bestest friend in the world, Tilly. Thank you sooooo much for sticking with me through thick, thin, headaches, tummy aches, and (alas!) BOB. Everything I write, I write for you.**

_Two weeks, Papa. Two weeks since you left me. Two weeks without my promised Angel. Where is He Papa? You promised! Promised…promised you would always be there. Where is he, my Angel? _

_Where? Where? Where!_

I balled my fist and hit the ground, ducking my head and hunching my shoulders.

_Please don't be a liar, Papa. You said…you said we could go on a picnic! You said you would send me an Angel, an Angel to sing to me and play your music. Why hasn't he come yet? Did you forget? Why would you forget me… how could you forget me so easily? Oh, Papa…_

_I need you Papa._

I didn't cry. My tears had run their course a long time ago, leaving nothing but what seemed an empty shell. Instead dry, merciless sobs wracked my small body. No one was there to hold me, sooth the desperation from my face. No one was there to love me.

His death had left me so lost. So incredibly, undeniably _helpless_. Never again would I feel my father's strong arms holding me, or crooning me to sleep with his soft voice. His haunting music would not fill the dark, dusty hallways. I couldn't, _wouldn't_, grasp this…much less accept it. So, I clung to the only hope offered me. It was the only hope that I actually believed in, simply because _my father_ had set it before me. _Mon Ange de la Musique_. My Angel of Music.

I squeezed my eyes even tighter as I knelt in silent supplication before the abbeys altar. The rain pattered on the roof with musical drops, but I paid no heed. I was too busy pleading, praying to my father with all my heart, urging my words to reach his ears…wherever he was.

The humble chapel had never held any special meaning for me, but the last two weeks would have found me no where else. I figured if my Angel were to find me…well, I wouldn't make it hard for him. But the weeks wore on and I grew uneasy as doubt crept in. Then fear began to eat away at me. What if my Angel had gotten lost? Or worse yet, _what if Papa forgot to send him to me?_

And so my two week vigil in the tiny chapel had begun. I did not notice the worried glances the nurses shot my way, nor did I hear the snickers that followed me every time I passed the maids' quarters on my way to the chapel.

"…silly child…"

"Thinks she's the first one to lose a father, she does…"

"…unnatural quietness about her…cross me self every time I see her…"

"… all pale and drawn…poor lamb…"

"Stupid girl…needs a sound whipping to snap her out of it…"

"…don't do her fair share, little runt that she is…"

So wrapped up in my own little world of waiting and mourning, I didn't hear a word. I would march past them all, thinking of nothing but the last spoken words of my father. _An Angel, Christine. Angel…an Angel…Angel. _

_Maybe I should find you…then we can be happy together. Is that what you want Papa? Is this why you haven't sent my angel? Did you forget that part, some unspoken agreement between you and God? Must I **find** my Angel before he can sing to me, make me sleep… I can find you Papa!_

This is how that cheerless rainy afternoon found me; kneeling at the altar, pleading with my father to find his way back home…to me. Either that or I would find him. My Angel or him, whoever showed first.

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My knees began to ache and I shifted uncomfortably. The dusty floor was hardly the accommodating cushion I would have liked, but no matter. Opening my eyes, I watched absently as small droplets of sunlight played a vigorous game of tag with one another. The scarce light illuminated the tiny pebbles and hard specks that littered the floor, adding to the general neglect that filled the air. My gaze traveled up the aisle to the intimidating stone altar dominating the room.

Its marble façade was cracked and the once shiny surface had dimmed with age. The large grooves that adorned the thick pedestal were grimy with years of dirt and muck. Two thick candles were perched precariously on the edges of the marble slab and their weak, flickering glow created an uncertain pool of light that I knelt in.

Although the surface of the altar was dull and hardly a proper mirror, I could still see a weak, shadowed reflection of myself.

A reflection that was abruptly joined by another.

I whirled around, startled by the unexpected sight that greeted me.

A tall, imposing woman stood in the doorway. Her stark black clothes stood in sharp contrast with the whiteness of her face. Honey-colored hair was pulled into a severe bun, but a few wayward curls were plastered to her face with rainwater. Her eyes held a cold fire that made my insides go slightly numb. Her gaze flicked up and down my slight form, and I unconsciously stood straighter under her scrutinizing gaze.

What she saw obviously pleased her well enough, because her face softened, and she stepped towards me. In that instant I saw something familiar in her that jolted my memory.

"I came as soon as I heard. I'm so _sorry_, Christine. Your father was a good man, and an even better musician." She looked at me with such pity then, that I had to look away quickly.

"The world has lost something extraordinary in his passing."

I had thought my tears were gone. Apparently I was wrong.

I dashed a hand at my eyes and looked back up at her. I was startled to find that she had come even closer and was kneeling down to my level now. Backing up slowly, my jaw dropped slightly. Who was this woman who felt so familiar, yet was so strange? Why did she talk to me as if she knew me?

I must have looked properly shocked because she stood up and sighed sadly.

"Forgive me, child- " She murmured, "These days have not been easy…"

She shook herself. Glancing around at our surroundings, she smiled wryly.

"So that bumbling cleric did not lie." Her eyes rested again on my face. "He said I could find you here. Dirty place, this." She wrinkled her nose at the dusty floors and neglected altar. "A house of God, such a revered place of worship…so _dirty._" She shook her head at the irony.

"Did you know that where I live, we have a splendid chapel? It's small, yes, but more importantly, clean. And _I_ don't live in an abbey."

My curiosity got the better of me. "Where-" My voice cracked from disuse.

Coughing, I started again. "Where do you live, Mademoiselle?"

She frowned and I suddenly felt the urge to hang my head and feel ashamed. Her frown was _scary._

"It's Madame, child, and I live in an Opera house."

I felt my eyes widen and my heart started to pound wildly as she continued, unaware of my unease.

"It's in Paris. You know of Paris, surely. Of the Eiffel Tower? The Rouge? The glittering jewels that call themselves nobles? They are nothing compared to the Opera Populaire. The chapel is just a small part. Can you imagine an auditorium so large that all of society can fit in it? Statues so pretty, it is said Angels came from Heaven to carve them. All of it, from the statues to the lowliest stone in the floors, a tribute to music." Her smile had grown larger and her eyes more distant as she recounted her memories. Now she again focused on me.

"You will like it there."

As soon as the words were out of her mouth, I felt my heart go numb. I backed up, shaking my head violently.

"N…no."

Her eyes turned puzzled. "What?"

"I said, _Madame, _no. I will not go. I…I have," I took a fleeting look around, "p…people to meet."

I couldn't stop shaking. My mind was reeling. Silently I cursed my voice for its tremulous stutter.

"Please." I said desperately. "My father, he…he…"

Her eyes softened. "I know it is hard to leave. But I promise… you will like it where you are going." She spread her hands out in a pleading gesture.

"Why? W…why do I have to g…go with you? Who are you? I don't even know your name!"

"You must go because your father wished it." Her voice hardened. "He had plans for you, Christine. He wanted you to perform at the Populaire. And I did not come all the way to this god-forsaken place to drag an unwilling child back."

Sighing in resignation, she sat down on one of the pews, her back ramrod straight and mouth compressed into a grim line.

"Just before he died," she ignored my deep intake of breath, "he wrote a letter. In this letter he expressed his desire for you to come to the stage. We have a prestigious ballet corps. Many families try to place any young girl with a measure of talent in our halls.

Your father performed in the Opera House with his violin for many years before he met your mother, so as a special favor, Monsieur Lefevre, has accepted you. With your father's recent death, the Populaire is now your guardian."

_Oh God! Angel…how will I find you now?_

I bowed my head in resignation. I was tired. Worn down by grief and crushed hopes together, I was no match for this imposing woman who sat before me.

"Your name, Madame?"

"Giry. My name, child, is Madame Giry. We leave in an hour. Go. Gather your things."

**Please! Review! (It makes me want to write more...)**


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